Painting.

O, beauteous Art! with heart o’erfilled with joy I stand And offer up to God its silent, grateful praise That He, in blessing, hath endowed a human hand With gifts so near divine; Thro’ these creations, warmed to life in Genius’ blaze, Doth inspiration shine. Here, oriental scenes are brought within my reach; The beauty of the castled Rhine, in softened hues, With fine, bewitching charm o’er-mastering speech, My raptured gaze enchains; I roam in dream the land whose purple vintage strews With wealth its hills and plains. And thus I dream and drink the blest enchantment in, That flows from art, with full, ineffable delight; Forgetting earth is cursed with sorrow, death and sin, I taste supernal bliss, And, in this ecstacy of joy, a world of light, It seems, hath dropped to this. Yet not with those I’d join who throng Art’s crowded hall, Whose motive is to prove themselves profound in art By use of bulky words, but which, in strident fall, Each hearer doth impress With lack of gift to grasp what colors may impart, Or canvass may express. Nor go with her whose hand, with long and tedious drill Has learned to daub with paint—whose tongue, with flippant ease, Can toss artistic nomenclature round at will, Yet nothing knows of art— Of art’s true self, whose secret power to hold and please Is soul, in every part. I’d put the shoes from off my feet, and then, alone Before the work, would feel I stood on holy ground— That there a spirit with its God had talked, and by His own Had been informed, inspired— Aye, minds should be, before they range this sacred bound, In thoughtfullness attired. And thus prepared, Perception’s polished plates receive The artist’s dream, that seems with pulsing life aglow, And o’er it Fancy’s magic fingers silent weave Her draperies so real— We seethe dimpling lake—we hear the streamlets liquid flow, And shadowed coolness feel.